My Mother's City
by fantasychica37
Summary: "My mother's city," she called it when she had to speak of it. Though it had been Ages, she could not speak its name.


**Atar- father (Quenya)**

**Amil- mother (Quenya)**

**Eldar- Elves (Quenya, common word in Sindarin as well)**

**perian- hobbit (Sindarin, literally "halfling")**

_My mother's city_, she says, when she must refer to it- when she is telling tales to elflings, perhaps, or reassuring her friends and subjects that they will find a place in that city where the one they will call King dwells. The practical reason she does this is that in Middle-earth, her mother's city has become synonymous with evil and treachery.

But it is also her way of atoning, of confessing her fault against her own grandfather and against her people- for though she never lifted sword there, _I could have done something, anything, I could at least have returned home with Atar, comforted Amil and her family, I could have refused to follow any further the slayer of my kin…_

She has betrayed her kin, betrayed them all, and even though three- no, two- Ages have passed, even though the ancient grudge has been forgotten, she cannot face them.

But now, because everyone aboard desperately needs to go to Lórien, and especially because Frodo's ever-worsening Weathertop anniversary is at their heels, they will not stop at Tol Eressëa as is custom; the Eldar aboard this ship will not have the usual Ages to heal and adjust.

They are going straight to the mainland- to the main port, in her mother's city.

_Hurry, hurry,_ Mithrandir urges the captain, his face pale and gaunt in worry. He stands for hours at the prow of the ship, eyes squeezed shut, trying to reach his lords to request that another Maia whose powers are not bound as his are- or even Lady Estë- be at her mother's city to take Frodo directly to Lórien.

They have not come this far only to lose him now.

She walks with him and his elderly uncle often, her hand on his shoulder. "Do you think it is too late for me?" he asks her once. "Do you think even the Valar can heal me?"

"Land ho!" someone calls. She is annoyed at the interruption.

And then, quieter: "Do you think they will forgive what I have done?"

The question strikes at her heart like a knife. She closes her eyes and staggers under the weight of memories- _the clash of swords ringing out into the distance, the booming voice of Mandos, the trail of blood left by the sons of Fëanor to the Sea and by the children of Fingolfin and Finarfin across the Ice, marching into Endórë at the first rising of the Moon, the embrace of her great-uncle Thingol and great-aunt Melian, catching some of the light of the last Silmaril, the founding and destruction of many Elven realms, the Last Alliance and the War of the Ring, meeting after meeting of the White Council, each gift she gave the Fellowship of the Ring, her last glimpse of her daughter as she rode away towards the West, the long constant struggle against Sauron, the Sea-longing that took her all the more with each time she used Nenya to defend her realm, which was both an oasis for the Eldar and a manifestation of her pride, her refusal of the One Ring, her lament on the water as she watches the Nine sail off towards destiny, her wedding day, her daughter's, her granddaughter's…_

Time stops with Frodo's words quivering in the air, and she finally begins to understand.

She opens her eyes to find that land is visible. Standing at the railing, she sees a radiance of white, more beautiful than she remembers it, and a crowd of Elves- _all four of her grandparents, her mother's whole family standing side by side with the House of Finwë (every member, she realizes with a leap of her heart- every brother, every cousin- save the Oathtakers), Amarië by her brother's side, Thingol and Melian- who Galadriel knows will spirit Frodo to Lórien right away- and Dior and his family, all of them alive, all of them standing together-_ on the beach, waiting to welcome them home.

She turns back to the perian beside her with a simple, pure light shining in her eyes, and her gentle voice when she speaks is soft and free.

"Yes, Frodo," Galadriel says. "They will forgive us both."

And with the last word she utters in her Exile, her heart begins to heal and become truly wise:

"Look!" she cries, her hair blowing freely in the wind. "Alqualondë!"


End file.
